The Cult
by Late to the Party
Summary: A wingless elf sits with a quill, making a record of a war that shaped the Realms. Her imagination takes hold as she wonders at the possibilities and the power of the planes. With enough faith, anything can happen, can't it? A short. AU.
1. I

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters, setting contained within. Bioware/Black Isle/Interplay does.

* * *

I

"I give of myself to strengthen you."

"We give of ourselves that you shall live."

Hands extended, he finished the rite. Briefly, a golden nimbus flared, surrounding him and his followers. Its shimmer was broken only by the pillars ringing the domed chamber. He was the sole source of light. Around him, five of the soulless lifted their clawed hands, their skin a delicate porcelain pearl-grey. A line of acolytes knelt, their faces reverent. All were hooded, all wore long sleeves, their robes the hue of silver mist. He alone stood with his face bared, his eyes glowing, sheathed in radiance. Two tears fell, quickly gathered up by the soulless at his side. Delicately, the ceremonial knife flicked, and two more droplets joined the tears. Light encased them, shining outwards. They hardened, becoming as crystal, relics of the faith.

The soulless held them aloft; the chanters worshipped.

The smell of incense was rife.

From the shadows, 'Wingless' watched. That is how they thought of her. His hands lifted and his followers dispersed. There was no alter, no holy symbols lining the wall, only a statue of a young woman. He was their alter.

"She will rise again."

"Her breath will bless us all."

"Witness and believe."

"We witness and believe."

She watched as the soulless glided away, effortless in their undying grace. Slowly, she sucked in a breath. Reconciling their presence was not something she had ever considered until recently. Even now, they still made her skin crawl. Their lifeless eyes didn't help. Lifeless, pale reflections of what they were in life, shades. That is what she believed. Had believed… until she witnessed the rite. Slowly, their eyes had changed over the many days; now they reflected their master's, their hue matching his. They no longer feasted on blood but fed on him, on faith.

"Aerie."

"M-my lord." She bowed her head; she had not heard him approach. Gently, his firm fingers lifted her chin. An unconscious tremor ran through her. His features were perfect, serene and she calmed. "Master." His smile was like the rising sun and she found herself mirroring it hesitantly.

"How fares the work?"

"I – I – it's almost done."

"I would not ask it of you…"

"N-no." She shook her head. "P-please."

His smile warmed, and through his eyes, she felt a formless touch brush her cheek. She curtsied. It was a human gesture she affected, but one she could not help though he never demanded veneration. "I look forward to reading it."

A history. A sacred text, the record of his cult. Then he was gone. She shivered.


	2. II

II

_They say that a man reaches for many things, but achieves few._

Aerie put her quill down and frowned. The master's wisdom was a thing she included atop every page. A new entry, a new saying. The manuscript was filled with anecdotes, some of his childhood, others of what followed. She hesitated. She didn't like to stray from the truth, but she couldn't help but feel she hadn't written enough. Lying by omission was still a lie.

_What is the nature of a man?_

She didn't like that question. It was one her lord had pondered on often, or so he claimed. She had no reason to disbelieve him. Tentatively, she leafed back. The manuscript had yet to be illuminated, but she had left space for the gold lettering and the border. Four gems already adorned the heavy cover, sealing it with wards she could not breach. Two of blood, two of tears. She sighed softly. He was beautiful. A portrait page stared back. Perfectly sculpted, marble skin, strong eyes, noble jaw, compassionate lips. How lips could be compassionate she wasn't sure… but his were. Perhaps it was his expression. It took her a moment before she could turn the page. Closing her eyes, she remembered how they had met.

She stood in awe. In tattered rags, wingless and dirty, a fallen avariel, still chained by heavy manacles. Two heads taller, he was built broadly, possessing a lithe-catlike grace she saw amongst her forest-dwelling kin. Robed as simply as his acolytes, his gaze held pity and acceptance, and her bonds fell to the flagstone floor. As if wandering a dream, she stared wide-eyed. His smile was slight, gentle. She could never forget his words.

"You are free."

Tears formed, and she shook. Unable to look, she lowered her head. As she did, something washed over her. A feeling of peace, coolness. A balm. Her sores closed up, her wounds healed. The shaking stopped. She sank to her knees and stared up at him. In that moment, her life was his. Into her hands, he entrusted a tear, his own. She felt his power as it solidified, and gasped at its radiance, its beauty.

"Child."

She swallowed.

That day changed her life forever. The day his followers had come for her. She since learned his reputation, but not his name. Names were something he seldom used, believing in their power. Words, he said, were the manifestation of will, holding the power to create and destroy. They should never be used lightly. She believed him. Later, she questioned him on the nature of his beliefs. His eyes had held her, smiling their indulgence, and he had told her a tale of love, loss, lust and passion. After that, he had set a quill in her hand, and as surprise silenced her, he offered her his great commission. The undertaking would be long, but he believed she was right for it.

That night, she did not rest but stared at the quill in her lap. Alone in her cell, she wondered at her former life, and why she was here. A complex of stone, of round rooms and pillars, corridors and halls, it could have been a tomb. Instead, it was a monastery far removed from any life she knew. The silence had unnerved her at first, but then she had come to appreciate it. Tranquillity settled on the musty air, and though the enclosed walls had terrified her, she was lulled by the place's peace. It was almost like an aura, a blanket that covered the complex, but also settled inside of her, around her. She gladly spoke the words after that.

Turning to another page, she wet her lips and tried to hold back from welling eyes. Her fingers rested on another portrait, a figure of light and one of shadow. The first was proud, male, and filled the left of the page. The second, female, was lithe, side on. She was beautiful, in spite of her shadowed features. There was a feline quality to her, a tail. Ears, so like the avariel's own, claws and horns, scales like spots, or spots like scales, a midnight blue and black onyx hair. His wings reached past her, his chest unclad and waist belted. Severity rested heavy in his gaze, and from it, judgement.

Her fingertips brushed their features. In her panel was night, and she crouched, her tail rising. Hers was a wary stare, holding quiet pride and strength. Somehow, there was a softness, as if the artist could not bear to depict them together. To the right, a second pane. A babe enshrouded. A being of darkness and light. Her mother's tail, her father's wings. A face of beauty. Below it, a young woman, grown. A hood and long robe, a different sort of shroud. Outlined features, quiet beauty, smooth faced and serene. Her mother's wisdom, her father's strength. A darkness, a shadow to the left; a dead god. Between them and set a little lower, a circular pane. Another babe.

Aerie shivered again.


	3. III

III

She wrote of the dreams, dreams he had quietly narrated. There was no tremor in his voice, only a troubled distance, but even that was washed away by his calm. The reassurance his eyes offered made her feel only a little better. They were alone, high inside a cell, looking out. She wasn't sure where 'here' was, and didn't like to ask. There were many books here, an entire floor full of them, and not just one, but several floors. He stared out a window, smoothly cut from the stone. Far away, the sun seemed to shine and the sea sparkled. There were no gulls, no breeze. He turned back and allowed almost apologetically, "A sentiment of youth."

She nodded slowly.

"You write well." His hand seemed large to her frail shoulder. A squeeze.

"My lord?"

He waited.

"H-how long…"

"Until it is done."

"But…"

He shook his head slowly. Her mouth clamped shut and she looked away.

"Do not fear. It is not the right time."

"Why – why did you come for me?"

It was a question that had been burning at her for a long time now. His returning gaze was studied, and his words considered.

"I wandered the Sword Coast for a time, gathering followers, seeking answers. I had knowledge and wisdom, but few followed me. Those that did did not understand. In time, I sought out ruins, storehouses of forgotten wisdom. In time, followers came to me." He deliberately took a moment. "In my travels, I learned of what I was, but by then, my nature had made itself known. The godsblood warred with the lighter aspects of self, and preyed on the rest, yet my will prevailed. I had set off on a path, and I trod among slaves, captives. Slaves to their own greed, to the whim of others, captives to darkness. I struck off shackles where I could, but I could not free them from the chains of their own minds."

"But… here…"

"After a time, I called, yes, and some answered. Those who wished to be free of chains, free of ignorance. I offered them hope."

"I- I don't like it."

"You are not the first to accuse me of arrogance."

"It's – it's not that. J-just…"

"Speak, Aerie, and have no fear."

"Y-you don't sound very l-likeable."

"You disagree with my choices?"

She shook her head, aware there was no edge to his words, just gentle curiosity.

"What troubles you?"

"Just… um…" She glanced away.

"Speak."

"But the soulless…"

"I bear their pain."

"But h-how?"

"Their faith sustains me, and I sustain them."

"But w-why?"

"They are slaves."

She didn't like to point out that they were all subject to his will. He smiled, as if sensing her thoughts.

"They do not thirst for mortals' blood."

"S-still…" She began to rise, flushing slightly.

"Sit." He held her shoulder. She obeyed.

"I have gathered as many as would come. This place, a haven, can hold many, but it has limits."

"Y-you're not a god yet."

"No," he smiled. "I am not."


	4. IV

IV

Drawn by two barded basilisks, the armoured chariot was resplendent. Covered in glyphs depicting scenes of victories, its wheels were wickedly scythed and the whole thing shimmered with white light. In place of naked eyes sat tears, tears fashioned as gems.

Its master stood clad in armour plates as golden as the nimbus in his eyes. His two swords were as burnished as his mail, and like his armour, studded with tears. Around him, his five attendants waited.

Aerie tried not to look at them. He had spoken once of a temple outside Beregost where four sirines sang their lord's praise. This had a horrible echo of that.

"She will rise."

"She will rise." The chanters echoed. Chanters from Candlekeep. His acolytes numbered peasants and nobles, scholars and townsfolk.

"Imoen." He pronounced her name. The statue stared blankly back. "Do not forget."

"We shall not forget."

Frozen in stone by her own brother, his companions fallen victim to vampiric curse… now he raided the planes and prime alike, seeking more followers. Many were drawn. Back on the prime, their homeland, his siblings butchered without remorse, spreading terror. She stared at him, at the statue. One day…

She closed the manuscript and sighed softly. Would he ever see her? She was just a scribe. But he hadn't chosen a head priestess. Except that statue…

He had to come back safely. She always worried when he went raiding. The planes were dangerous. But so was he. If only she could go with him…

Sitting down in an alcove, she set to work. Faith made things real. If enough people believed… _In the year 1386 DR, Flamerule, the dragon Abazigal was slain by his half-brother, our lord. The blue drake was the last of the Children who stood opposed to our master's claim, and with his death, our lord ascended the Throne of Murder. With his ascension, the statue in his realm awoke, his half sister, Imoen._

It was only 1382 DR, but if words created and faith made manifest became truth, perhaps she could write truth, and if what she wrote was true, it was sure to happen. It didn't work that way, but she could hope.

"No! G-get away! B-bad! N-no touching!"

"Cespenar clean the shiny ones!"

"N-no!"

"Eeeeek!"

"A-and s-stay a-away!"

She didn't like to smack the little 'butler', but she wasn't going to let him put his paws all over her precious pages. Absently, she sketched in a pink ribbon around the doodle of the imp. Couldn't hurt to try…

"Oooh! Shiny one!"

She smiled sadly. A moment later, she found herself gasping. A sketch of a saddened elf stared back at her, and beside it, a smiling girl with wings.

Was that what he had meant by faith? She squinted, and shrugged. The planes weren't the prime and this one was his. Under it, she penned her name. Before her eyes, it changed to the one he had called her when he wasn't using 'child', or 'Aerie'. She thought it meant 'singing owl'. Soon delighted giggles broke the stillness and joy joined serenity.

—


	5. Epilogue

"Whatcha readin' Aerers?"

"Um… j-just a story."

"Ooh. Is it about trollops and pugtails?"

"S-sort of. B-but n-not really."

"Oh. Hey, is that your… did you write it? I'm impressed!"

"U-um…"

"Can I read it?"

"W-well… I – I guess. I d-don't think you'll f-find it very interesting…"

"Has it got demons and dashingly handsome thieves?"

"N-not really…"

"Oh hey, ew. Is this? Huh? Uh, that's a really pretty smile you got there, Aerers, but… er, y'really think of me brother like that? Kinda gross."

"I – um. H-he did say t-the prophecies mentioned a 'score'…"

"Yeah, but."

"D-don't tell him."

"Oh. I get it. It's a joke, right? Trying to get him to man up and sort out ole Balthazar instead of staring into that stupid pool all the time?"

"A-actually…"

"Anomen? Oh man, it'll make him so mad. Those two… heh, I can't wait. And Sarevok! This is gonna be…"

"It's just a story…"

"We'll make a bundle out of it, Aerers. Just you see."

"You r-really think so?"

"You betcha. Hey, you got any more? Oooh, what's this? Another story? Oh gross! No way is that Solar our mother! And Tenya? Kid sister?"

"Y-you d-don't like it."

"Aw, don't look so sad. Sure I do. Sorta. I just don't like _her_."

"W-why? S-she's beautiful."

"'Cause bro here goes all goofy-eyed, like a hobgob."

"H-he c-called her 'mother'."

"Sarcastically, yeah. Betcha she's jealous. But hey, Tenya's all growed up? And… ewww. I really don't wanna think about that…"


End file.
